


The part he wishes to play

by NathalieWeasley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathalieWeasley/pseuds/NathalieWeasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A remix of <a href="http://firethesound.livejournal.com/46563.html">Leave the Glasses On</a> by firethesound: I’m not complaining about his machinations. I don’t exactly mind the sight of him eyeing me over his dark-rimmed glasses, shirt perfectly rumpled and skin glistening in the light of the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The part he wishes to play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firethesound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firethesound/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Leave the Glasses On](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/108886) by firethesound. 



> A million thank yous to my wonderful beta amorette and the fantastic mods who dealt with my never-ending requests for extensions. Title comes from the original story by firethesound. Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Original scenario by the lovely firethesound.

He thinks he fools me. It’s adorable, really, that after fifteen years he thinks I don’t know his tricks. I never catch him in the act – he is definitely a sneaky bastard, regardless of my rather exhaustive understanding of his nature – but the hint of a smile about his lips and the ease in which he gives in to being distracted from work are telling. 

\--

I’ve wandered down the stairs from the bedroom, shower had and uniform tossed in the general direction of the hamper. Work had been exhausting, what with the new trainees scrambling around and the break room (and therefore all tea-making supplies) under construction. All I wanted was to curl up in bed with husband. My absent, most-likely-still-working husband. 

On the ground floor, light flickers from under the door of the office, confirming his presence within, and I walk over, yawning widely. I’m _exhausted_. I open the door, and my exhaustion slips away.

He makes quite a sight. And knows that fact, of course. He is sitting, slouched in his high backed leather Gainsborough chair, papers and scrolls spread out on the desk before him. A battered book is in his hand, though I doubt he actually finds the book intriguing. The scene he presents tonight is based on the reality of my attraction to him when fetching him away from his work, and I have been hard-pressed at times to remove him from his office when he is engrossed in a treatise on complex potions theories (or the _Daily Mirror_ ). The slight smile beneath the surface, the gaze focused on me and not the book, his angle to the fire highlighting his features yet obscuring the text – no, he is not paying attention to the book.

“Malfoy, are you going to be much longer?” I keep my voice steady, though other parts of my body respond without restraint. I’m sure he notices – my pyjama trousers don’t hide much – but it’s a moot point, since any changes in my trousers are most assuredly caused by and _planned by_ him.

“Hm?” He looks up and blinks, a touch too slowly to be believable. But, Merlin, he is gorgeous. My plans for me and him wrapped around each other in our bed shift slightly, sleeping being replaced by a rather more physical activity. 

I’m not complaining about his machinations. I don’t exactly mind the sight of him eyeing me over his dark-rimmed glasses, shirt perfectly rumpled and skin glistening in the light of the fire. There is a reason, after all, for his attempts at manipulation; he is beautiful like this. I don’t try to resist, but simply stride across the room toward him, my eyes never leaving his. “It’s nearly midnight. I was wondering if you were coming to bed soon.” I walk closer to him, enjoying the heat growing in his eyes at my words and movements. He thinks he’s entrapped me. But does it count as a snare if the prey is willing?

I can practically see his mind working. He raises his arms, stretching, shirt pulling tightly across his toned chest and stomach. His nipples are visible through the white cotton. My mouth waters. He doesn’t ever have to try as hard as he does; he is delicious. 

I round the leather-topped wooden desk and approach his chair. I am close enough to see the blue and green flecks in the grey of his eyes, the pale lashes against his cheeks. I slip into his lap, tucking my knees in between him and the arms of the chair, the leather more pliable than when originally purchased, having been similarly stretched over the years. The heat in his eyes grows. He might seduce me with his glasses, ink-smudged fingers, and dishevelled wardrobe, but two can play this game. He likes me on top, heavy over him, surrounding him. I _was_ almost sorted into Slytherin, and, besides, I’m fond of the position as well. He – predictably – squeezes my ass, and I don’t think I can manage not touching him during the time it would take to get to our bedroom. “Although, after further consideration, I think bed can wait.” He shivers. I don’t think I’ll hear any protests.

I raise my hand to his face and sweep the blond strands off his forehead. The hairs are thin and soft, devoid of his typical products. Another enticement. He reaches a hand up and grabs my fingers before pressing his lips gently against the tips, tongue flicking out to tease. I shudder. I slip my other hand upward, touching his cheeks, his lips, his neck. I could just touch him for hours, feeling, worshiping his body. He stirs below me. His hips catch mine at the perfect angle and _oh_. Perhaps not. I slide my hands down his chest, pinching his nipples as I go, and his breath catches. He moves his hips again, deliberately this time, and we both moan. 

My hands have reached his waist. I slip my fingers underneath the untucked shirt and feel the smooth skin of his stomach. His breath is not quite as steady now, and the grey eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. He raises a hand, as if to remove his glasses, and my own catches his wrist seemingly of its own volition. I bend in close, lips inches from his. “No,” I whisper. His pulse jumps, and mine responds, a feedback loop of arousal. 

“Leave the glasses on.” I look in his eyes as I whisper, hoping he can see how much I want him, how much I _love_ him. He might play on my _appreciation_ of him in glasses, but the manipulation – if it can even be called that when the end result is beyond consensual, brilliant, brilliant sex – does not deter me. The sneakiness is as much a turn-on as the glasses. And the combination? Fucking _hot_.

He swallows. “Well. If you insist.” He arches his neck, lips reaching out to mine. Cocky bastard. But for good reason; his lips are irresistible.

I crash my lips down onto his and _feel_ them curve into a smile. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and slip my tongue along his lips, my heart stammering when his body loses the willpower to both be smug and to kiss. He returns the kiss, lips and tongue against mine, body opening underneath me.


End file.
